The Way to a Visa

My mother tells me of the train

ride to the American Consulate in Stuttgart

when she was eight years old,

and of the jewelry that her mother owned,

and the window her mother opened at every bridge,

of the rings, bracelets, and necklaces she threw out

when Jews were ordered to turn in their gold

and silver, saving only her wedding ring.

My mother tells me of the doctor who makes her undress

and makes her mother leave the room.

He listens to her heart, checks for marks and bruises, and

she tells me of the shiny metal object he uses as he spreads her legs.

The visa was stamped, a red ribbon attached to its corner.

And my mother tells me of the red Mary Jane shoes her mother

buys her on the way back to the train and of her excitement

at seeing the statue of the Lorelei for the first time.

She tells me of the legend every German schoolchild learns,

and I sit in the kitchen, listening as my seventy-year-old mother sings me

her song: “I do not know what it should mean that I am so sad,

a legend from old days past that will not go out from my mind.”